It's hard sometimes to stay positive, especially when you can't sleep. How are you supposed to think good thoughts when the minutes are ticking past and you probably won't get any sleep, and tomorrow is going to be terrible, and nothing is ever going to change, and why is it so hot in this bed? See? I know exactly what you're thinking, because my mind works like that too, doesn't even wait for night. Still, when I try to think positive thoughts, it really does help when it comes to sleep.A study on gratitude found that people who had more positive thoughts as they lay in bed fell asleep faster and slept better. What we think about in those last few minutes before sleep makes a difference. So tonight's episode has two goals.First, to help you find sleep, and second, if we can, to help you feel a little more positive when you wake up tomorrow. Like all our episodes, we'll do that with some relaxation and a little hypnotherapy, and along the way, we're going to find you one small thing to look forward to tomorrow. That's the trick, just that one small thing, something good for your mind to find first when you open your eyes.But before we begin, our usual disclaimer, this episode uses light hypnotherapy and relaxation techniques, so it's important to be somewhere safe when listening, preferably that's your comfortable bed, and not anywhere. You need to stay alert. And speaking of things to look forward to, twice a week there's a new episode here, but in the Snoozeville Sleep Club there's a lot more.Longer versions of the episodes and the whole collection, and they're sorted into categories, so you can find what you're looking for without scrolling forever in the dark. And if that sounds like something that you'd like, the link is in the show notes. And now it's time to get you settled.Are you comfortable? Do you have everything you need? A glass of water by the bed? If you hold your hand up in front of your face, can you see it? Always try to make your bedroom as dark and as cool as you can make it. Take a moment to adjust anything that needs adjusting. There's no hurry, just make sure you're as comfortable as possible.Take a deep breath with me now. Feel that air drawing down into your lungs. Hold it there for just a few seconds, and then release it slowly. Letting it flow out of you like a gentle sigh, and with that exhale, feel all the tension leaving your body, all the small irritations and disappointments that may have been part of your day, any tasks that remain undone, any conversations left unfinished, any worries about tomorrow. Let them all go now with your breath. They'll still be there if you need them later, but right now, you don't.Take another deep breath, and as you exhale, feel relaxation settling into every part of your body. Feel your shoulders dropping, your jaw softening, your hands unclenching. Now you're ready.As you lay here in the dark, in the quiet, I would like you to picture a house at the edge of a small town in the hills. It's an old house, two stories with a red front door that needs a fresh coat of paint and a porch light with the moth or two circling it. Down by the road, there's a sign on a post. It says, Castor Falls Bed and Breakfast, and underneath it hangs a smaller sign on two hooks that says, Vacancy. You won't find this place on any of the big booking sites. There's just a sign by the road and a website that the owner's best friend's grandson made for her about 15 years ago. It plays music when you open it, and there's no way to turn the music off. The welcome message flashes, but still people find it. They stay once and then they come back and they send their friends because Margie who runs it, she pays attention.If you mention on the phone that you work late, there will be an extra lamp and an extension cord by the desk in your room, and if you say you get cold at night, there will be a second blanket folded at the foot of your bed. It's raining tonight. It's been raining since late afternoon, a steady autumn rain that patters on the roof and fills the gutters and splashes out of the downspout by the front door beyond the back garden in the dark.You can hear the river high and full from all the rain rushing along underneath everything. Inside the front hall smells like coffee and something baked hours ago. Raincoats drip on their hooks by the door.The stair carpet has worn a path right up the middle where people have walked for 40 years. The wallpaper at the top of the stairs is coming away a little at one seam and Margie has taped it back up with clear tape. In the upstairs bathroom, the tub is pink and to get hot water, you have to jiggle the tap in a certain way.There's a little note taped to the tiles explaining how to do it. Margie has done her last rounds for the night. She's turned down the beds.She's tucked the hot water bottle in a knitted cover between the sheets of each one. Now she locks the front door, clips the sign by the road to no vacancy with the long stick she keeps by the door for that purpose, and she turns off the hall light. Her big black and white cat is asleep on the landing, stretched out along the warm radiator, one paw hanging over the edge.There are three rooms with guests in them tonight. Three doors, each with a thin line of lamp light underneath. The first room is up under the roof.The ceiling slopes down on one side, so low that you have to duck, and there's a skylight in it, and the rain is running down the glass in little rivers. The sound is right over the bed, close and soft. The bed has flannel sheets, soft as an old t-shirt, and a heavy quilt in blue and white squares.The woman staying here is in her 30s, and she's here for work. She's been sent to get a new computer system running at the regional dental clinics, and the staff hate it. It keeps freezing, and tomorrow there's another meeting about why.Her laptop is zipped into its bag and pushed under the desk. Her phone is face down. Her hair clip is on the nightstand, and she's wearing thick wool socks that she packs on every trip, because her feet are always cold.Dinner was a granola bar and a bag of pretzels from the vending machine at the clinic, but she's not thinking about any of that right now. This is her third stay this year, and she knows that downstairs in the kitchen, right now, there's a big bowl of dough sitting under a tea towel, rising slowly all night long, and in the morning Margie will roll it out, spread it with butter and brown sugar and cinnamon, roll it out, slice it, and bake it, and the whole house will smell like it, and then she'll eat it slowly with a big mug of coffee with lots of cream and sugar. She smiles in the dark.She reaches up and turns off the lamp. The rain patters on the skylight. Her breathing slows and deepens, and after a while it's long and even.She's asleep. The second room is at the front of the house. It has a bay window with a padded seat and long curtains drawn against the night.The woman in this room is 74, and this is her first trip on her own. For years she traveled with her friend from church, but her friend's daughter just had a baby, so this time she came alone. Her hip has been aching since the bus ride. It's been bothering her for a couple of years now, and five hours in a bus seat didn't help. She took the stairs one at a time tonight, with her hand on the smooth old banister, but now she's sitting up in bed in her flannel nightgown, and she's tucked the hot water bottle against her sore hip, and the warmth is soaking in, and she's thinking about the morning, because in the morning she's going to call her granddaughter. Her granddaughter is 15.They talk every Sunday, and her granddaughter never rushes her off the phone. She tells her things she doesn't tell her mom, and tomorrow, when she picks up, her grandmother is going to say, guess where I am? She's been saving it all up. The bus ride.The house with the red door. The pink bathtub. She slides down under the covers.The pillow is down, and it sighs a little as her head sinks into it. The cotton pillowcase smells like fresh air, because Margie dries everything on the line when it's not raining. She pulls the quilt up to her chin, and she reaches out and clicks off the lamp.Her breathing slows. There's a small sound at the end of each breath, soft and steady, and then she's asleep. The third room is at the back of the house, looking out over the garden toward the river.It has an old brass bed that creaks whenever anyone moves. Two wet jackets hang on the back of the door. On the dresser, there are two new toothbrushes still in their packages, a phone charger, and two pairs of wool socks.Margie put them there, because this couple didn't plan on staying anywhere tonight. They were driving through on the highway this afternoon in their old Honda with the check engine light that's been on since last winter, and there was a clunk and a grinding sound, and they coasted onto the shoulder. The tow truck brought them to the garage in town.The mechanic looked under the hood and said it wouldn't be cheap or ready until at least tomorrow. Now one of them is lying on their back, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how much room is left on the credit card. The rain ticks against the window.The radiator knocks once and goes quiet, and then the other one rolls over close and says softly, we'll have the morning though. The waterfall, because when they arrived, wet and tired. Margie sat them down in the kitchen and gave them each a hot meal, and while they ate, she told them about the trail.You go past the white church at the end of the street, there's a gate at the end of the lane with a latch that you have to lift, and then the path follows the river under a big maple tree all red and gold this time of year, and the leaves will be wet and shining on the path, and they'll smell like autumn. There's a bench halfway along with a little brass plaque on it for someone who loved this walk, and after about half an hour, you'll hear it before you see it, a soft roar through the trees, and then the path will open up and there it will be, water pouring over the ledge of a dark rock, white and lacy, falling into a deep green pool, so clear you can see the stones on the bottom. There's a big flat rock at the edge where you can sit, and in the morning, if the sun comes out, the spray makes little rainbows in the air.The one who is worrying lets the numbers go. They turn on to their side, and their feet find each other under the quilt, cold toes against warm ones.  The brass bed creaks once and is still. Their breathing slows and after a while, it falls into the same rhythm.In, together. Out, together. And they're asleep out on the landing.The cat stretches and turns around and settles again on the radiator, purring for a moment before he drifts back off. Outside, the rain is stopping. The clouds are pulling apart over the hills and between them, a few stars are showing, very bright. After all that rain, town is dark. A thin line of smoke rises from a chimney down the street. The church steeple is a black shade against the sky.Somewhere in the trees by the river, an owl calls, low and soft, and then calls again, further away. And under it all, the river brushes on. At the end of the hall, past the sleeping cat, there's one more door. It's open a little and the soft light is coming from inside. This room is yours. It's small and warm and quiet.There's a window seat with a faded cushion and through the gap in the curtains, you can see a few stars. Margie has been here, too. There's water on your nightstand and your bed is turned down.The sheet's folded back and there's a hot water bottle tucked in at the bottom, warming the place where your feet will go. And on the pillow, there's a small card in careful handwriting. Sleep well.Feel the soft flannel against your skin. Feel the warm spot at your feet. Feel the weight of the blanket as you pull it up around you.And the pillow sighing as your head sinks into it. The whole house is asleep around you. Every room is dark. Nobody in this house has a perfect life. Not the woman under the skylight with her frozen computer system. Not the grandmother with her aching hip.Not the couple in the brass bed wondering about the credit card. Not Margie either with her taped up wallpaper and her website that plays music you can't turn off. And nobody that you know has a perfect life.Not even the people who seem to have it all figured out. Everyone has something they wish were different. Something that keeps them up some nights when things are hard.It's easy for the mind to narrow down until the hard thing is all it can see. That happens to all of us, especially at night when we're tired. But every guest in this house went to sleep tonight thinking about something else.A cinnamon bun, a phone call, a waterfall. Their troubles didn't go anywhere. They'll still be there in the morning.But so will the good thing. And the good thing is the one each of them chose to take to sleep. What's the one small thing you're looking forward to tomorrow? Doesn't need to be big. Doesn't even need to be special. And if nothing comes right away, that's okay. Just wait a moment. Something small will find you. And when it does, hold it for a moment. Picture it.Imagine how it will feel tomorrow. Your mind will keep it safe for you overnight. And tomorrow when you wake up and take that first long stretch, it will be right there.The first thing to meet you. But that's hours away. But right now, there's only this dark room and this warm bed.Let yourself go now. Your thoughts are loosening, drifting apart. Each one a little softer and further away than the last.Your body is heavy and warm. Your breathing comes and goes on its own. Soft and easy. Without any help from you, my voice is getting quieter now. And that's all right. You don't need to follow it anywhere.You're safe. You're warm. You're held.And you can sink down and down into sleep.